Baby Advent

A few months back, Papa Bear and I were discussing his July 4th "shutdown week" at work. It's an additional week of vacation for him and we have thoroughly enjoyed it every year, even though it occurs when the fires of Mount Doom meet the storm clouds of the tropics, producing the hottest and most humid blanket of mosquito-loving weather ever. When our kids were young, we used to lay out an old door in the front lawn and blow up fireworks. We were especially gifted at setting the woods on fire. I have traumatized numerous nieces and nephews with Aunt Rose's obligatory cigar-smoking during said events. Even so, a lit cigar is the absolute best thing to light fireworks with. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. 

Papa had the great idea to get his passport last year, since he is working for Honda and might need training in Japan. He wouldn't do that when I was planning to go to Italy, seeing all the sights and eating delicious food, but he's good with doing it so he can look at metal parts and robots in a factory. He might be more comfortable with factories than actual people. I still love him, I do. But since he's now travel-ready, we discussed going to Ireland or Scotland or the like, since that's where most of our DNA comes from. Then we remembered Amelia...

Baby Amelia, number 14 in this arm of the Norton legacy. Baby #5 for our oldest son and his wife, the ones who thought they'd never actually get a child. After much infertility, loss, and trial and error, they now have a house full of exuberant, precocious and wonderful kids. Last night, the youngest, Knox, told me, "I can't wait to see her!" What some folks don't know is that kids in a big family end up loving the babies. Then we try not to ruin them. No, we're not Catholic or Mormon, but maybe passionate Protestants...Anyway, Amelia June is due any day and besides, who wants to get on a plane right now?  

Last week was a flurry of activity. Our church has a "Bible and Music Camp" instead of a typical VBS. There are no silly posters or mass-produced consumables in their program -- it's like nothing I've ever seen. The children sing (and really LEARN to sing) and harmonize, play simple instruments, learn folk dancing, do art projects and hear the Word. They had a ball. This is my fourth year to go to the presentation night, and my first year to help (with art). It took me back to my youth, happy days where we lined up in front of Orange Hill Baptist Church and marched in to "A Mighty Fortress." This church has captured the innocence of childhood that I have not seen in many years and I was so happy to be a part of it. I collapsed in a heap over the weekend but am inching slowly out of my cave today. 

I've been asked many times what I would do with myself after our nest emptied out. I'll let you know when that happens...     

Purging, Pea Protein and Praise

I've been driving all over Rome, Georgia for the last couple of weeks, helping clients look for a house. It takes me an hour or more to get there. Usually this is the not-fun part (long drives), but I have so enjoyed these jaunts through beautiful country. The hills are green and verdant, with plenty of old houses and cows to gaze at. Floyd County only has a few towns and I seem to love all of them, particularly Cave Spring and Rome. I turn on Pandora  music (Jim Brickman or Alan Silvestri stations) and breathe deep. I might also call a friend or family member and visit on the phone with them for a bit. When you know you're stuck in the car for a stretch and without much traffic, it's a great way to catch up. 

Meanwhile, who thought it was a great idea to do a "liver detox"? I am certain that my fat, old-ish liver would like a break. That translates to: take a bunch of very expensive supplements, drink nasty protein powder (pea powder, of all things -- and who in the world likes peas?), chop up scads of vegetables and fruits, throw raw things into the blender and try to drink it. All without gagging. Mind you, I really do love vegetables of all types, raw, roasted, sauteed...but there is a limit, even for me. After four days of this, my entire body revolted. From my scalp to the other end, I felt nauseous and sick. They say that's because you really need to be doing it. But my poor polluted self had a hissy fit. I missed my niece's graduation party and threw myself into a prone position on my recliner, the cats delighted with their big, warm, unmoving comfy pillow. I've been pretty much there ever since, drinking fluids and whining. The pizza I had last night seemed to help everything, however. Ken has been known to say, "I need a little grease in my life" but little is not in my vocabulary. It makes sense that in order to detox, I'm going to have to go backwards from where I currently am. I've done some crazy things to get healthy, then lots of backsliding. Question is, do I have the courage to start this back up?  Life would be simpler if I could just not eat and quit having to make all these decisions. It's what, when, how much, how often. I'm exhausted. I guess I could do that (not eat) because I've definitely got some extra stored up in here.'' Inquiring minds want to know... 

Leaving those thoughts, I'm so grateful that we actually have food, water, soap (don't knock it), a home, people that love us, grandkids, kitty cats, good neighbors, wonderful church family, the beauty of the earth around us and still, a free country. There is so much to be thankful for and it's too easy for us to forget those things.   

It's Hot So I Thought About Snow...

Recently as I was tooling around Villa Rica in our golf cart with several squealing grandchildren, a Land Rover crossed our path. On the roof, it had special accoutrements that held skis. Not water, nay, but snow. When such vehicles pass me, whatever stage of life I find myself, I am struck with awe and humility. I think of what kind of life this person must lead, that they casually attach snow skis to their cars here in the Deep South. They must be sophisticated, well-heeled people, living in some other world that I will never approach. Not that I mean to. I've been skiing before, yes I have. It was rather like when Flossie Mae went to the Prom...  

Ken and I were newly married and went on our church's annual ski trip to Boone, North Carolina. People say that if you can ski on the ice in Boone, you can ski anywhere. Our group pulled in to an ancient schoolhouse where we were staying in the mountains. We felt like we had gone back in time. The stone walls and unadorned floors and trim were literally unchanged since a hundred years before. In the main room there was a massive fireplace that was big enough to walk right into. The sleeping quarters were spartan, with cot-like beds and clawfoot tubs. I loved it. Meals were in a dining hall next door, hearty and delicious. At night, we could hear somebody scooping coal down in the basement, to stoke the boiler that was heating the place. Not sure who that was. In our numerous years of staying there, we never knew who was doing that in the middle of the night. A tortured soul from a beleaguered orphanage or an unfortunate ski accident? Who can know...

When we finally arrived at the slopes, I was already intimidated. My beasty husband had already figured out skiing some time before. Being proud and athletic, I brushed off his attempts to help me apply those strange, long things to my already-plenteous feet (I have been told they resemble gun-boats. And Hobbit feet. But I care not and will go barefoot as often as humanly possible). I told him I was going to practice on the bunny slope, and to please go ahead. He and his buddies scatted on up to the very top of the mountain, while I attempted to get in line for the kiddy lesson. There was a dozen little kids attached to each other, with an instructor leading them. I began to slide backwards, first flailing about and then desperately trying to grab the ground with my hands, resulting in a fanny-first attack on the poor, tethered kiddos. They and I ended up in a tangled mess on the ground. The instructor did not seemed pleased with me, so I took off my skis and slithered to the snack bar.

After being supplemented with hot cocoa and time away from anyone who might recognize me, I was helped by a kind friend who took me on up to the easy slope and patiently showed me how to snowplow and do a decent slalom. Occasionally, Ken and his man friends would swoosh by and tell me I was doing great (nice to see ya). After half a day of this, Ken decided I was ready for the big slope. I rode up there on the lift, which is an apparatus I will never understand. There's only a little metal bar keeping you from plunging to a certain death, then they expect you to just hop off when you get to the top of Witch Mountain. No hesitating, no stopping, no messing around. Get off and shove off. Miraculously, I did just that.

As we made our way around to the beginning of the run, I looked down and saw that I was about to go see Jesus. Whatever I had done on the intermediate slope had nothing to do with this. But I used those glutes and knees to snowplow my way part-way down. Then I came upon masses of ridges of snow, rather, ice. They call them "Moguls." I will not say what I called them. I found that when I pushed myself more to the outside of the slope, I could manage better. I saw three of Ken's buddies standing to the side, taking a breather. I believed that I needed one of those too, so I angled my skis that way.  This time, however, there was no grabbing the ground or snowplowing my way to safety. I hit a patch of ice and barreled right over those three mangy boy creatures, again ending in a tangled mess. Thankfully, they were nice people and couldn't stop laughing. I took off my skis, walked the rest of the way down and said adios to my skiing career. All later trips were enjoyed with Ken skiing with the boys and Mamasan shopping with the gals. Hurrah for jewelry and chatty lunches. Flossie Mae ain't got time to kill herself that-a-way.   

Come On In, The Water's Fine

I can feel the water calling my name. Be it the beach, a creek or somebody's swimming hole, I need to get on over there. It's pretty scary, to expose these white, fluffy limbs to the sunshine, but I need some buoyancy in my life. 

When I was a child, I was horrified of the water. I had been thrown in a few times and also heard tales of drownings at Sun Valley Beach, the South's "biggest swimming pool," (it was a concrete lake) which was a half a mile from our house. We were always warned not to go in the water for at least thirty minutes after we ate, because supposedly you could get cramps and drown. (And just for good measure, don't swallow your chewing gum, because it won't pass through your digestive tract for seven years). I would splash at the edges, but there was no swimming for me. 

The summer I turned eleven (the other neighborhood kids were already tadpoles), our Uncle Lloyd decided we needed a pool. He bought a 3-foot deep model and slaved over it all week, to get us somewhere to cool off. Since we didn't have central air conditioning in our 60s brick ranch (oven), this was heavenly to us kids. And apparently to my parents too. Many a night, I would hear them giggling out there, taking a midnight "swim."   Having a pool that shallow gave me the confidence to put my head under the water and to push off and glide. I began to imagine myself a tadpole too.  

Then came 4-H camp at Rock Eagle in Eatonton, Georgia. I didn't know a soul when I got there, and on the very first day we had free time at the giant pool. There were two diving boards -- a tall one and a thirty-foot one (not really, but it seemed like it), impossibly deep water and about three hundred strangers. Since I would never see these people again, I had nothing to lose. I waited in line and tentatively jumped, well, fell off the board. My body descended deep into the water. I had never swam in anything deeper than three feet, and here I was, dying on the first try. I thrashed my way up to the surface, gasping for air, and made my way to the ladder. No one seemed to notice what I had just been through. Kids were laughing and talking and even throwing themselves off the high dive, something I decided I would never do. But of course, there were more trips to the board and by the end of the week I joined the crazy kids, not just falling but jumping off the high dive. 

Thus began my love of the water. For my middle school years and all the way through high school, I worked at Sun Valley Beach, teaching little ones to swim and lifeguarding (who lets a 12-year-old teach swimming lessons? But I promise I did, and they even paid us). Each break I got, I would get back into the water, perfecting my dives and swimming around like a mermaid. 

I taught my four children and many of my sister's children to swim, and have never ceased flinging myself into the ocean or lake or pools along the way, no matter how white or floppy I happen to be. It's a wonderful thing, to float and move in the liquid spaces. Even just seeing water is good for the soul. It's dangerous and wonderful and mysterious, all at the same time. 

Seize the day. Don't wait to lose weight or get in shape. Get the old fool out there and dive in (and get your kiddos some swimming lessons).